


Part 7: Old Flame

by mantra4ia



Series: Bucky x Reader: Words are the Best Weapons [7]
Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Notebooks, F/M, Gen, Trust Issues, cross the line, it matters, let me care, never sink, old flame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mantra4ia/pseuds/mantra4ia
Summary: I really had to cut chunks out of part 7 because it was not flowing well. Were you able to make it through the whole thing, despite having to wait for the Bucky/Reader interaction, without being bored?Archetype: Bucky x Reader, alternating POVsSnapshot: Tasked with the mission of rehabilitating Bucky Barnes, no one said it would be easy.You've asked Bucky examine how he thinks: to distinguish his mind's spirals of deceit from the truth. He has complied.You've asked him to keep a journal: to find his most crucial sense memories, distill their emotion, and infuse ordinary words with the most extraordinary power. He has complied.You've let him into your home under the provision that he allows himself to let go of his fail safes and feel so that his words can have their desired impact. He has complied.And now all you wish is to take everything back, because you have contaminated the process. You are in his notebook, a place that you should never be. You are in his memories, and words have been built on their tenuous foundation. The emotions of James Buchanan Barnes have been entrusted to you.*Some Doctor Who Crossover references mixed in, just because.*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously: Anniversary  
> When Bucky comes into your life, and onto your doorstep, you cannot turn him away.

** Reader's POV / Bucky**

****“When I gave you the assignment, was I at all unclear?” Back in your typical office setting you felt much more at ease backing Bucky down; the personal relationship you had formed, not just with Bucky but with the Avengers team while you were ill, had proven vital toward making progress with Bucky, it was also...unnerving for you.

“No” Bucky said as he coughed. For once in a very long while, shortly after you had gotten well 4 days prior, Bucky had gotten sick. And indeed the small superstitious part of you thought it ominous, even as your reason tried to hammer it out of you.

“Did I give you ample time to complete the task?” you replied. When Bucky had come to you with the first word of counter conditioning engraved in his mind, “Bridge,” you had taken pages and pages of notes on the bond between Bucky and Steve. Those memories: feelings of reunion, feelings of being made whole again, were the clear driving resonance upon which that word was built. “The man on the _bridge, I knew him_.” Bucky had admitted as much. But with the following words he'd brought to you, “Rainstorm” and “Morning,” Bucky was much less forthcoming. It seeded in you the dreadful suspicion that perhaps you had unknowingly planted these words; in your friendship with Barnes he was beginning to rely on you. And that was dangerous. Despite appearances, you were hardly able to rely on yourself; Bucky didn't know that, nor should he. You were not a stable anchor point on which he should hinge recovery. All these doubts were at the heart of the assignment you gave to Bucky, in an attempt to help him and conversely assuage your own fears.

“Mmmhhh,” was all the affirmation Bucky could manage to reply while stifling another cough, trying and failing to breathe through his nose. This was miserable, not only being achy and under the weather, but being interrogated. He knew he was being unreasonable, but how could Bucky explain an embedded resistance to task at hand that there were no words for?

“Then why is it you refuse to go see Connie?” The girl, the jubilant fling of his youth, a thread of remembrance all the way back to June 14th 1943\. “You've plateaued in progress. She may break that ceiling.”

“It's...difficult for me.” Bucky remembered the Stark Exposition of 1943 that ran in place of the World's Fair that year in the borough in Queens. The flying cars, the latest technology, the future in sharp contrast to the tenuous backdrop of their present, a world at war, young ladies on the arm of each enlisted soldier. Steve and Bonnie had not quite hit it off, and for that matter neither had Bucky and Connie, not exactly. She was bubbly, smart, and even in the face of daunting uncertainty was optimistic about the future almost as if she could see it as clear as day. Perhaps that was why, even as he danced with her, Bucky was slightly removed from the young girl's charm and undeniable beauty. Though he took a good deal of pride in being drafted to the army's 107th, the uncertainty of combat still dampened his spirits. As a young man he depended on small catalysts of things like the Stark Expo, the wonder of hopes, dreams, and ideas of inventors to remind him that the future can and would exist no matter how bleak the present. It was not a gift in his nature to hope.

At present, on the outside at least, Bucky was still a young man, but displaced into the future he had once only dreamed about. That great leap forward should have given him hope for mankind, it's resilience and endurance, but instead it pained him when he thought of those like Connie. When he met her, she was 19, and if she were still alive who would now be 92 years old. How would he look to her, a man on the outside who had barely changed since his 20s, yet felt so incredibly worn? Bucky was shaken from his thoughts when (Y-N) spoke again, a softer note in her voice, but with a hard line against overextending her sympathies.

“Well Hallelujah, I must still have a job then. I wouldn't have chosen something easy for you Bucky, it wouldn't be worth your time.” You closed your book and he mirrored you. “Well, that was insightful, I'll see you again next week.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky sniffed and stiffened.

“We're done for the day Bucky, you may leave.” Your heart was heavy for James Buchanan Barnes, but you held your ground unwavering.

“We've hardly just started talking, it's only been 10 minutes.”

“A lifetime it seems. I help those who help themselves, Bucky. You can see yourself out.” Bucky hurled his pen so hard at the edge of your desk that it left its mark behind: slammed the door so vehemently it rattled in the frame. You waited 5 minutes, hoping that your new tactic would prove prosperous and not a complete disaster, before exiting your office and heading toward the Sharon's loft / the Avengers safe-house to level with Steve.

* * *

  **Reader POV / Steve / Sam**

You certainly didn't expect to find yourself drawn to Bucky's bedroom door, but having stormed the apartment you did not find much resistance from Steve or Sam or even Wanda for that matter, and you threw yourself into the uncharted territory with an exasperated “aggghh!” You let yourself drop face first to the bed like a cannonball. Seconds passed before Steve could form a question.

“Do you need a moment?”

“In. Rogers. Close the door and have a seat,” you mumbled into the pillow. “We need to talk.”

“Should there be a third party present?” Steve asked beseechingly.

You stared at him coldly. He grabbed Sam from the hall, willing or not, and shut the door.

Bewildered by your disheveled state, Steve made a cautious start - “Aren't you supposed to be in session with Bucky right now?”

“Not if he didn't do his homework,” you replied. Sam smirked until Steve caught him in the ribs with an elbow. “And you Chuckles? Didn't I give you an assignment to stay on Bucky till the job got done?”

Sam's protest was fierce but ineffective. “Have you met Barnes? No one is going to force him to do something he doesn't want to do.”

“I wasn't suggesting brute force, I was suggesting guilt! You're a counselor, you know how strong a motivator peer pressure is. He's accountable to the whole team to put in the rehab work. Use that to your advantage, instead of forcing me to play the bad guy.”

“What exactly happened?” Steve questioned, trying to fill the gaps of the story.

“I sent Bucky on a mission to visit Connie Oswald.”

Steve whistled long and slow. “Connie from 1943? That takes me back, she's still alive?”

“And very much kicking. It was Bucky's test. He needs to take therapy seriously.”

“In what way?” Steve was slightly combative now. “As if he isn't committed already? He's been seeing you weekly from the start, despite the fact the counseling is the last thing he'd like to be doing. He wants to be out on missions.”

“Phht.”

“Am I wrong?” Steve countered.

"That's not who he is by nature. The Winter Soldier takes missions, executes directives from the front line, by contrast Bucky protects people's backs. That's all he ever wanted to do, even when he thinks he's protecting people from himself.”

“Because you know him so well, better than all of us here?” Steve struck back.

At this point you could nearly feel the Avengers crowding around behind the closed door. “No, of course not!” You shot back, feeling judged. “A step back to what I was actually saying, if you'll indulge me. It's not that Bucky isn't committed, but the way he's coasting through sessions now is making false progress.”

“How so?” Sam interrupted, now clearly interested in learning more about your therapeutic approach.

“What has Bucky told you so far?”

“Almost nothing,” said Steve, “except that each meeting he journals.”

“And that you are using sense-memory as a trigger cue -” Sam added.

“-As opposed to explicit memories, yes. I don't know how HYDRA conditioned their command sequence into Bucky, the file doesn't go into detail as far as my non-fluent Russian can discern, and Bucky has no memory of the process. Was it chemically induced? Stimulus induced through pain? I have no idea how to replicate their method, not that I'd even want to. So instead of the extinction method to eliminate the HYDRA commands, what we're experimenting with -" Steve was stricken by the word, the visuals conjured of experimenting on his best friend, so you proceeded hastily "- is...like installing a backdoor off switch. New words, bypassing independent thought, which are linked to sensations and then to feelings. Memories can be razed, the mind can be corrupted by HYDRA, but if the sensation prevails, then counter switch remains viable.”

“Fascinating,” Sam remarked.

* * *

** 3rd person POV: Bucky/ Connie **

Off to the side of a densely wooded road, near the edge of Napanoch County, Bucky halfheartedly knocked on the door of a small lake cottage. In his left hand, mostly concealed to limit glares and stares, was a bouquet of Gerber daisies. He did not know what to expect when he'd confirmed that Connie was alive and well and surprisingly enough still in the state of New York. He certainly didn't expect to find himself inexplicably drawn to her door, but most of all he did not expect the surprising welcome of a buoyant 7 year old girl with braided dark hair and inquisitive chestnut eyes.

“May I help you?” A kind of manner Bucky was unaccustomed to in modern times brought him back with fondness to the time when he had grown up. He was baffled by how easily he fell into that familiar way of speaking.

“You might just. I was hoping that a woman I used to know still lives here. A Mrs. Connie Oswald?”

The girl gave him a questioning look, as if wrestling with the idea of inviting a stranger into the house. At this Bucky offered a piece of assurance. “My name is James.”

“Grandma, there's a man named Mr. James to see you. He called you Connie. May he come in?” the young girl asked.

“Goodness, I haven't heard that name in a long time. Please bring him through Courtney my dear.”

Tightness brought Bucky's stomach into his throat, not from illness but anticipation, so that he had to be careful not to crush the daisies in nervousness. Past the living room and through the kitchen that smelled of recent baking, he saw her. Lined face, silver hair, eyes rimmed in reading glasses, and a slightly more staunched posture could not mask a radiance that beamed from her vitality. Connie looked across the room and met the stranger eye-to-eye over the tray of croissants her gloved hand was balancing, if somewhat shakily. Though her eyes could not believe it, her intuition told her it was true. James Barnes, the man with an aching smile, had not changed a day since they parted ways at the dance hall in 1943. My god he was beautiful, and by the looks of it also quite sad. That would not do, especially over a perfectly good tray of pastries.

“Mr. Barnes, it has been some time. You may as well make yourself useful and take these out to the porch. I'll be out presently. Courtney, could you show him the way?” A tray thrust upon him, flowers summarily stripped from him, and a seven year old on his heels guiding him toward the backyard enclosure, Bucky felt a weight lift from his chest by being put to use in a way so very colloquial and familiar. All at once bursting from house, Bucky was struck by the beauty of an expansive reservoir in a cove shaded by willow trees. This is where Connie had built a life.

* * *

  **Reader POV / Steve / Sam**

“If it's fascinating, then why aren't you helping me, Wilson!”

“If you haven't noticed, Bucky isn't around right now," Sam was finding this too amusing, "Let's play this through logically: he isn't welcome at the Avengers Tower unaccompanied, as mandated by Tony, and he isn't with you. Since he hasn't been back here all day, you were the last person to see him. Where do you think he's gone in all this time?"

There was no malice in Sam's voice, though perhaps a bit of snark. You were stunned into silence.

_To complete his assignment._

“I don't think you need all that much help after all, counselor.”

Steve, now sufficiently apprised, was less defensive when he said, “So you think that Connie, connections from Bucky's past, will help establish these counter commands?”

“That depends on Bucky, it worked with you." Rogers was confused. "The first word Bucky established a strong connection to was  _bridge_.  Who do you think that refers to?"

"Bucky hasn't shared this with either of us," Sam prompted, as he and Steve exchanged a look of concern.

"It's early days yet. He's still acclimating to the idea; it's hard for him to hope, but Bucky will come around. Visiting Connie might help nothing at all, but he has to try to _build other bonds of his own_ to reinforce other words.”

"Wait," Steve began to catch on to the the unspoken missing pieces, "you said _bridge_ was the first word in a sequence. What are the others?"

"That's the problem," you began...

* * *

** 3rd person POV: Bucky/ Connie **

“On no, don't you dare feel sorry for me,” Connie said as they both sipped lemonade overlooking the yard. In their short re-acquaintance Bucky had seen snapshots of a lifetime stream before his eyes. “When the war took full swing, I thought of you and soldiers like you on the lines. In your case it seems behind the lines also,” she said looking over his metal arm, but not in any way that made him feel uncomfortable. “And I knew just then that the home-front was no place for me. So I began to teach abroad. I traveled, taught in every country in Europe.”

Bucky felt more relieved in light of this, that Connie had made her way out of New York, and back again. “What did you teach?”

“Reading and social studies for the most of it. It was a hell of a thing witnessing these young children, whose family circumstances had forever been altered by war, make such strides in accomplishment through reading.” She reminisced as they both watched Courtney creating a hodge podge banquet of pebbles, twigs, leaves, and blades of grass from the garden, that 'the ants would enjoy' and help them steer clear of the food on the porch. Bucky stared at the foraging girl with some concealed fascination that this must be something of what Connie looked like at that age. Another lifetime.

“Creatively speaking, my proudest accomplishment was when I prompted the upperclassman to write stories for the younger classmates to read.”

Bucky had another fit of coughing, and Connie – slightly annoyed by all the disruption in there conversation, forced on him a strong cup of tea. Strong in the sense that it was fortified with enough kick to numb the back of Bucky's throat, though it took a while for him to get his head back on his shoulders before he spoke. “Most of their stories were not entirely imaginative though? I hope otherwise, but I doubt even the children could avoid being changed by conflict. We certainly didn't.” Bucky said before taking a bite of his croissant, feeling improved.

“There's the heart of it. War found it's way into their writing, yes, but not with the same insidious hold. In stories, fighting was often far away, in foreign lands, fought by strange people; some wars even fought on other planets. There were soldiers, but not in the sense that you and I had witnessed. Not in uniform. In large part, the students were writing stories not about the war but about it;s people. Everyday people, who in the circumstances became leaders. By making these people into the heart of stories, their imaginations could always find a positive outcome. I learned as much if not more from the children as they learned from me. Which is why...” She paused for an incoming Courtney, who dove into the oversized wicker porch seat next to her grandma “I still keep this one around.” Bucky was surprised when Connie, not a day older than 19 again, pulled a face at her granddaughter, who gave as good as she got right back. “Keeps me young,” she said, pretending to munch on Courtney's hand, in an effort to steal away her youth.

To this Courtney could only squeal at the unexpected onslaught and try not to reel too uncontrollably as she made every effort to change the conversation. “Did grandma tell you that she learned to fly a plane?”

In that moment Bucky couldn't help but laugh uncontrollably as he recalled Connie of 1943 who hated heights and couldn't take more than one fast dance and two of three twirled turns on the dance floor. “No, I suspect she omitted that part of her story for nefarious ends.”

“If only to avoid your scrutiny. But yes, I did learn to fly a plane to prove one of my students wrong. He was under the false impression women couldn't fly, and needed correction.”

“And naturally you were the one to correct him.”

“Who better than a teacher, Bucky. It was a skill that came in handy in the end; when I retired, I spent a few years contracted in SHIELD's employ as a pilot, searching for leads on MIAs and POWs. I hoped that maybe in my search, I'd find a lead on you or the rest of your company.”

“I'm grateful you didn't,” Bucky said as he cleared the porch. “There was a time not long ago when I was best not found.”

“What's a Bucky?” Courtney wondered out loud, skirting over the rest of the adult conversation that was of no interest to her. Bucky's face began to light up red round the edges.

“That's a Bucky, sweetheart.” Bucky waved his prosthetic hand, to the wonderment of the child. “It's a nickname from a long while ago.”

“Is that why he calls you Connie?” the girl asked.

“I suppose it is,” Bucky said to the smaller incarnation of Connie. “What do you call her?”

“Grandma C, but mommy calls her Clara.” Even at 99, Bucky was learning new things about Clara Connie Oswald.

**POV Reader/ Steve/ Sam**

“When you say 'bonds of his own,' what do you mean?” Sam was also beginning to shape the problem.

“The first three words he came up with are _Bridge, Rainstorm,_ and _Morning_. The first word is a sense memory of Bucky's reunion encounter with Steve, the other two are both based on encounters with me, which is not acceptable. If I let this continue, I'm failing him. Bucky has known me all of five minute. I'm a _new_ element, therefore a weak element; the sense memories need to be deeper, more enduring. He can't rely on me to build a strong foundation.” You had no idea why you were talking so fast that you felt like you had just run a mile.

“Steve, could you leave us alone for a minute?” Sam prompted, to both of your dismay. Steve was inquisitive, but he trusted Sam and in so doing he toppled a few eavesdroppers on his way out the door.

“What's this about Sam?”

“A little complimentary therapy for the therapist. You sound like you could use it,” he suggested. Exiting the room briefly, he returned with two beers.

“I don't drink.”

“More for me then.” He cracked open the first one, but the second still stood as a focal point between you, which you were glad of. “There's something you need to hear, you aren't going to like it but that doesn't change anything. Your research, your methods of treating Bucky, they're all sound. But your assumption is flawed.”

“Humor me.”

“You're devaluing yourself. More specifically, you're devaluing your importance to Barnes.”

“Don't you think I know that Wilson, that's the point. I need to take myself out of this equation. Bucky can't make this personal.”

“You're missing the point now, (Y-N). Taking a variable out of the equation doesn't necessarily give you answers. The two words Bucky acquired from you, the ones that have you so bent out of shape, you have to credit that they are important to him, regardless of whether they 'should' or 'shouldn't' be. If they matter to him enough, doesn't that serve the goal? Be objective about this.”

“Yes, but...”

“But what?” Sam asked, throwing back the bottle.

* * *

  **POV Bucky/ Connie**

“Do you have any regrets, Clara?” Bucky inquired, not entirely sure why.

“Some, and thankfully every day is time for a few more.”

“You don't regret coming back here after the kind of life you've led?”

"A life of adventures, you mean?" She paused, considering the loaded question as something he was not just asking her, but also himself. As a teacher, one takes care when answering those sorts of questions. “I find it fitting...” the look she received conveyed Bucky's doubts, “that a person like me should move out here, into the rural, wooded hills. Nature is as honest as she is quick, lets you know right away if you take to much without giving back, which an oldie like me needs reminding of from time to time if I'm too set in my ways. And as for this particular stretch of backwoods as opposed to any other, well...there's a town by a reservoir just west I'm fond of, that also serves as a touchstone in my age.”

“What kind of touchstone?” Bucky was curious. He had a fleeting suspicion that somehow this conversation about remembrance had all been brilliantly engineered, but could not deduce how except by (Y-N)'s foresight. 

“A quite literal one actually. The township is called _Neversink_ if you can believe it.” She paused to let the word take effect. “I know some about you Bucky. I read what I can with a grain of salt. You're allowed regrets, we all are. Just don't let them finish you and don't let me be one of them.”

And Bucky heard in her voice, in the undertones,  _don't let the life you left behind be one either._

“Meeting you, even just for an evening, made it's impression,” Connie went on. "Remember that man? He was the first soldier to ever ask me to a dance, even though I was sure you'd asked many more before and after. So close to his younger friend, so foolhardy, so compassionate, that I said yes to him despite my better judgement.” A moment of silence caught Bucky by surprise and when he looked up at present day Clara he saw Connie again, that willful teenage girl. “I met a soldier who really didn't want to be a soldier, who just wanted to be someone worth being proud of. It was surprising, exciting, it would never have worked out, it was impossible. But...it changed my life.” Bucky suppressed a cough, but it was enough to break the moment. 1940 winked out of existence.

Connie continued, “your life since has changed so much that you must mistake change for a dreadful constant.”

“Mhm.”

“Well don't. Take it from someone with a few years experience. Let life surprise you every so often, maybe every 70 odd years when a stranger comes to call,” she added to lift Bucky's spirits, “and it'll change you for the better. Speaking of, not that I'm ungrateful, but what brings you round for this overdue visit?”

Bucky was not quite sure how to reply without being his old self at the dance hall, a girl on either arm, and he laughed. He wasn't even sure why he felt self-conscious around Connie all the sudden, who had seen her fair share of all sorts of young men, many of whom she'd likely boxed on the ears for being brazen and over eager. Perhaps he feared the school teacher in her had not truly retired and that he would be schooled.

“Life brought me here, a change in my life that surprised me.”

“And does this change have a name?”

“She does. And she favors arm twisting and ultimatums.”

“Ah, I like her already...but I won't lecture you. This woman you mentioned, I think, is better suited to that task. But if you'll take a piece of advice, make a fast friend out of her, don't wait 70 years, and bring her some daisies instead of a silly old woman.”

“That's three pieces of advice, Connie.”

“Best to be thorough.”

“And you're not a silly old woman.”

“You take that back Mr. Barnes. I am silly, and I will not have anyone say otherwise in front of my favorite great-granddaughter.” Connie gauged Bucky's hesitation, a measure of questions not asked. “Well, if a woman sends a man to visit an old flame, there's a long conversation left at home. Best take the rest of these croissants to soften the blow.”

“Grams, what's an old flame?”

“Another time darling. James, it's been a rare pleasure, please don't be a stranger.”

Bucky stooped to give Connie a gentle but ardent hug. He couldn't place it on the fortified tea, or the food, or the company, but a strange mix of them all had driven the illness out of him. “I'll write to you when I'm back in New York, I promise.”

“Please do, I appreciate a letter from time to time. But remember...” she jested “email works just as well, you daft old man.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Reader's POV/ Sam**

Your thoughts were spiraling now, you could tell because you were pacing a groove into the floor. “Sam, the best case scenario is that the word association plan doesn't work. That's a problem we can fix by finding and replacing the faulty words in the sequence.

"As opposed to a problem you can fix?" Sam interjected

"Yes. The worst case scenario...”

“I think you're getting this twisted,” interrupted Sam.

“...is that the sequence as a whole  _does_ work, which means his words trigger an attachment. Can see where that would be problematic?”

Sam laughed. “Certainly for you, not Bucky. You're afraid of getting too close to him, for what reason I don't presume to know, but _you_ need to sort that out for all our sakes.” At this came a knock on the apartment door, and somewhere in the distance Steve called out “Sam, you may want to hustle out here.”

“Coming Rogers,” Sam took the half finished beer with him as he left the bedroom, but the empty one remained on the dresser. “Take it from me as an observer, if Barnes is making any connection at all, he's putting a foot in the land of the living. Don't fear that, and don't doubt the person who's behind it.”

As Sam exited the room, he noticed that Bucky had just come through the front door. Though they shared a room in Sharon's close-quarters living arrangement, Bucky eyed Sam suspiciously from the beer in hand to his grinning face. “Sam, who were you talking to just now? Do we have company? Is the..room ...decent?”

“Actually, (Y-N) stopped by to check on you, and we got to talking shop. Not about you, just patients and patterns and anxieties in general. She's really something special in her field.”

Bucky agreed with a small nod and averted gaze, to which Sam took out the big guns. “Bucky are the two of seeing each other?” Stunned, and non-responsive, Steve had to clap Bucky on the shoulder to bring him out of it. “Good because I'm planning on asking her out for sushi.”

Bucky's dead-shot response back was clear. “Don't you dare.”

Sam concealed a satisfied smile. “That's what I thought. Nothing to lose sleep over. Have a good night guys, I'm going on a late night fly by, see you in a couple of hours for my watch.”

Steve stood there, a bystander crossed in a bizarre exchange, when he caught Bucky's expression and felt bolstered with new humor. “So, the secret's out huh?”

“Steve, did someone punch you in the head too hard? I didn't mean...I wasn't...”

“...you skipped therapy today, I know.” Steve redirected the question to keep Bucky off balance, amused by watching Mr. Smooth perspire. “Which begs the question: where were you?” He said, steering Bucky toward his room.

Bucky smirked, and in a round-about answer said, “I found out something new today. Do you remember Connie, double-date Connie, the one we met at the Stark Exhibit? It was the strangest feeling, like being outside my own life - I paid her a visit, we talked. I found out she became a school teacher.

Steve laughed. “If we were from another time, Connie probably would have been your favorite school teacher, Bucky.”

“We are from another time,” teased Bucky, “Just imagine Steve, with her as your teacher you might not have slept through so many classes, tanked literature, and been left to the army.”

“Glad we had this talk.” Just like old times.

* * *

**Reader's POV**

As Bucky assessed his living space, the room seemed barely disturbed, but the empty bottle on the dresser was quite disconcerting. _What happened in here?_ Then he realized he wasn't alone.

You wondered what Bucky thought when he stared at you, suddenly quite conscious of being in his room uninvited. As neutral and unadorned as it was – a guest bedroom barely more than a mattress and shelves, no pictures in sight – it was still a personal space. Too personal. 

“I'm sorry for the intrusion Bucky, I'll be on my way.” It was impossible to avoid his large frame positioned as he was with his back to the exit. As you reached for your blazer hung on the back of his door, Bucky closed the space.

“We need to talk.”

Three rounds of therapy in one day was excessive even for you, and all of the sudden you were back in session and there was no appropriate place to sit. Backing away from the door to show your compliance, you let Bucky sit on the bed, while you stood in the far corner of the room holding up the walls. “Do you even like sushi?” he asked. Out of context, the question seemed like a joke.

“Is this the start of 20 questions?” Sarcasm dripped off your every word. “No. I 'm more partial to PAC-Indian food myself.”

“Good.” Was that relief you detected in his voice? Could today get any stranger?

“Were you able to complete your assignment?” you continued blindly.

“ _Neversink._ ” Bucky said.

Today was certainly confusing to no end. “What's that?”

“Not what, _where_. Connie lives just outside that town. She still guest lectures on pedagogy of teaching impoverished families, she has an adopted daughter, a 7-year-old great granddaughter called Courtney, and she asked me to give you these.” Bucky slid a covered basket halfway across the bed, just out of his reach, but also out of yours unless you edged out of your corner. You proceeded with caution.

“Croissants?”

“With chocolate.” Bucky added. “At a cost. A warning really. Connie said _if a woman sends a man to visit an old flame, there's a long conversation to be had_. Is there any truth to that do you think?” Bucky said with a smile.

That woman was a sharp as a tack. You did not yet feel comfortable enough to sit next to Bucky, but as a show of good faith, you sat on the floor in front of him, your back against the bed frame. Bucky handed you a pastry with a caveat. “I enjoyed seeing Connie again, it was a refreshing look at another life. A happy one, a life I miss. But I need to understand why you sent me. When you told me to leave today, you were angry.”

“I was,” you confirmed.

“I was angry,” he added.

“You were.”

“And I need to know why we're provoking each other. In the beginning, I came to you with skepticism, with every form of resistance. I admit that. It was a large deficit to bridge.”

“I recall the early days of physical restraints” you said, reflecting on your first impression of the Winter Soldier.

“Since then, I've grown to trust and respect you. I like working with you. But in the last three sessions, when we get down to work I feel the resentment coming off you in waves and I need to know why.” Bucky demanded. "Haven't I given you every effort?"

“It's not resentment Barnes, it's fear.” You corrected in haste, and at cost: a sense of loss, knowing that you had taken the first step into something you didn't fully understand, and had allowed yourself to fall anyway.

* * *

**Bucky's POV**

“Of me?” you ask (Y-N), trying to ignore the tremor, as if your muscles were bracing for impact.

“Never.” _Never._ How could her reaction come that suddenly and assuredly? “Of the words you've grown attached to.”

Finally you understood exactly where (Y-N) was leading.

“As a professional under normal circumstances I wouldn't ask, but sense memories should come from your life experiences. If they are connected to me, I'd advise you not to rely on them. If you rely on me instead of your own strengths, it puts you at risk.”

Images breathed life to her words to her insecurities; remembering her home, feeling her tiredness, seeing the single picture on the mantle of a man in military cut, next to a flag that would never again catch the wind. Like the folded, guarded pennant would she ever feel the breeze again?

“I'm not Liam. You didn't put him at risk. He suffered because he didn't rely on you. You are stronger and more steady than you know.” The words were more incendiary than you meant them. You felt the tension in every inch of her. “It may be cruel of me to say, but...”

“Bucky, please stop.” Her wall would not come down; you closed your eyes and let your mind wander. Base training for the 107th had a similar wall, rain-slicked with a single rope. Armed with your will, weighted by mud covered boots, your gun, you soaked greens, your fatigue, what seemed so small in the distance was immense and immovable at it's base. The first time you attacked it, your strong leg hit the brick hard, your hands gripped the threads, you thought you had all the purchase needed and so committed to vaulting over. Then your drive leg slipped, the rope burned through your hands, you landed on your back in the mud and could only enjoy the stillness moments before the soldier behind you, unable to stop, vaulted off your chest onto the wall.

You sunk back on the bed with that same pain in your chest, now for very different reasons; you looked up at the white ceiling but saw the overcast clouds and felt the humid air on your face as you sweat, allowing your eyes to close and drift back to the night on the fire escape.

“I hear the _rainstorm_ more that I can see it. I see the aftermath, the shining surfaces, the cold breath, the mirrored streets. But when I close my eyes, I hear all the tones. On metal, on pavement, on skin. It eclipses almost everything else.”

You don't expect to hear her voice, but you hope for it, “What comes next, after the concrete memories?” (Y-N) relieves that silence.

“I feel the stickiness of wet clothes on my back. There's a weight, a solid weight resting there. I feel ankles jabbing into my sides.”

“What else?”

“I feel how cold the fabric is. It's a welcome contrast to how warm I feel. The person on my back has complete trust in me. **I know that she is safe**. I open my eyes...”

“And?”

“I _feel_ **rested** for the first time in years. That's what the _rainstorm_ gives me. _Morning_ is far away yet, but it is coming now, the sun-swinging pendulum. For once I wake up in the middle of the night, and not only do I know **I will see the next morning,** but **I am surprised** because someone told me it will be **good** and I believe them. The longest part of the dark is done, and everything after passes quickly into another day. I set down my cargo, I have a home to come back to, and **I know that I am safe, that everyone is.** That's more important to me than you realize.” 

Your hand dangles, and in your thoughts another hand reaches for it. The man on the wall, the soldier just behind you who hinged all his momentum on your pained and broken body extended his arm almost to the point of pitching over the edge. The suction from the mire would not keep you. Your pain would not keep you, gravity would not keep you. You seized the helping hand and leveraged yourself over the repelling wall.

Opening your eyes now, nothing had changed in the room but everything was different. (Y-N) is holding your hand. “I'm sorry Bucky, I was wrong. Keep the words.”

You expected to pass the next moments in companionable silence. Except there was something else (Y-N) needed to say. “When we first met. I asked how many lives you saved, and your reply was  _it implies that I matter._  If I accept that I am important to you, _than you must infer that you matter._ ” A conditional truce.

You could work on that. “Then are we good, you and I? Can we allow ourselves to.." you were about to say 'matter to each other' but Connie's voice in your head stopped you short. Recalling 'email works just fine' made you swallow a wry smile; in small moments like these, when you caught yourself in the formality of old-fashion, you reminded yourself that it was acceptable from time to time, not to act your age. "Are we allowed to be friends?"

“We're good,” said (Y-N). "And all that that implies."

“Then good morning,” you replied.

* * *

  **Steve Roger's POV**

Bucky recited the words softly in his head until sleep found the two of them. _Bridge, Rainstorm, Morning, Never sink._ Steve peer in on them on his change of shift, Bucky asleep in bed, (Y-N) folded on the floor, knees to her chest, head on her knees, Bucky's hand hovering inches away.

Lifting her into bed was nearly nothing. Steve knew it was a risk, but his friend deserved a risk that hopeful. Just in the nick of time, Falcon returned from his fly by for the change of core.

Sam peered into the dark room beyond the door, and Steve rebuffed him, “Look's like sashimi is a no-go this week my friend. We'll go out for pizza instead.”

"Well damn, what's a guy got to do for a bed around here?”

“Finish his shift and pull out the sofa.” Steve yawned, heading to his own bedroom that he had to himself. “Good morning, Sam.” Yeah, he could get used to a few more nights like tonight in the win column.

**Author's Note:**

> Next: Part 8 - Training Day


End file.
